


Underwater

by leeyanatasya



Category: Day6 (Band)
Genre: Angst, Feeling of drowning, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Other, Self-Hatred, Short One Shot, may be triggering though very vague depiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22810249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leeyanatasya/pseuds/leeyanatasya
Summary: Kim Wonpil feels like drowning. Maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can stop them from saying hello.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	Underwater

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short and vague depiction of an issue I have - and do - go through. This is basically my story told through Wonpil’s eyes, and I am sorry if it offends or affects you in anyway. We all go through our worst times differently, and I pray we will feel better soon. 
> 
> Sending love everywhere. x

Drowning. Wonpil feels like fucking drowning. 

It isn’t an easy attempt to keep one’s head underwater for an extended period of time, not without the lack of air alerting your lungs to go on fire and demand to be released from a breathless cage. Truthfully, Wonpil’s attempted to do so several times; he counts the seconds in his head as he immerses himself in his bathtub, with water filled to the brim that it reaches just below his neck. He counts, and counts, before he no longer can hold his breath and breaks the water surface, making a mental note of the time he’s able to stay down. He’s hoping that with a gradual number of attempts, the time will gradually become longer. 

But they don’t. They never do. 

One, two, three. Four, five, six. 

In hindsight, it doesn’t require an elaborate scientific explanation for why his time becomes shorter; he goes for another attempt almost immediately after, barely allowing his lungs to compensate for the previous lack of oxygen. He knows the logic behind it – he understands it perfectly well. But Wonpil is stubborn. He is so, so goddamn stubborn. But it isn’t just the ridiculous consecutive attempts that get to him; he does this routine on a daily basis. Everyday, before he sleeps, he draws himself a bath and practises. Or, at least he calls it practice. But practice makes perfect; overtime, people get better at things they work on. But he doesn’t get better. 

Why can’t he fucking get better?

Seven, eight nine. Ten, eleven, twelve. 

It’s an idiotic routine, he realises that. People conjure routines to work hard on their passion. People find passion in things that bring themselves and others joy. People create art, people convey joy, people do good. What is the point of a hobby – a habit, really, if nothing good can come out of it? They tell you to love the things you do; they tell you the things you love should always be a priority. Wonpil priorities this; this shit habit he can’t seem to pull away from. He ponders, he obsesses, he practises. And practises. And practises. But he hates being underwater. For the love of everything, Wonpil hates being underwater. It makes him feel like drowning. 

But drowning is the only reason they don’t say hello. 

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. 

It is simple, really. In fact, he believes it to be logical; when a person is underwater, everything becomes vague; their sight, their hearing, their thoughts. Being underwater is like breaking into a stranger’s home; you know you’re not meant to be there, and the ignorance of your surroundings leaves you either terrified or exhilarated – either way, nothing is familiar. The world around you becomes foreign. When underwater, your senses don’t work as they should, because of the unfamiliar environment. Often times, people are unable to open their eyes to get back the sense of sight. But all the time, that other dreadful sense; the sense of sound, becomes a mumble. Nothing is coherent, nothing makes sense. When underwater, the voices that say hello can never be understood. 

If he can’t figure out a way for them to say goodbye, then this is as best as it gets. 

Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one. Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four. 

The clock in his hand keeps at a steady pace, but his insides have started to run their course. The lack of oxygen begins presenting itself before the first minute ends. Wonpil senses that feeling – he senses it slipping from his fingers. 

The voices become a little louder. 

Sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy. Seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three. 

Maybe he can hold on longer this time. Maybe he’ll make it work. If he just tolerates the burning sensation and ignore the suffocation, he can break his record. He can count for a little longer. He can do it. He should do it. He should. He should. There’s no harm in trying. There’s no fucking harm in almost drowning. Practice makes perfect, right? Maybe he hasn’t been trying hard enough. He’s been scared; fuck, that’s it. He’s been scared. He should stop being a coward. If he would just stop being a fucking coward, he could be okay. For a little longer, he could be okay. All Wonpil wants is to be okay. 

The voices are in his head. 

He loses control of the clock, and breaks the surface of the water. 

Wonpil gasps as his lungs beg for its need to function. He shivers with the cold, regretting not heating up the bath. He was scared it would be too hot to immerse in, but the chills running down his back prove the route he’d taken is not the lesser of two evils. He breathes in, wanting that short moment of peace to last. He breathes out, knowing it is simply fucking foolish to hope it will. He closes his eyes, replaying the moment of the last minute, and an image is conjured. He pauses, opens his eyes, and punches the wall in frustration. 

Eighty-three seconds. After that time, the voices had become audible, and the words had entered his mind. Suffocating him, terrorising him, making him hear the things he wish would be left unsaid. He wanted to breathe; all Wonpil wanted was to fucking breathe. But the persistent hellos and vanished goodbyes have left him drowning. He can’t, he fucking can’t, break free. It wasn’t the pain more so than the realisation; the realisation that none of this, none of him, could amount to anything. The realisation that no matter how hard he tried, the voices would come back. They would always come back. No ounce of unfamiliarity could scare them away. They were meant to scare him, and that’s how it should be. 

Wonpil may keep his head under water, or above it – but he will always feel like drowning. 

It took eighty-three seconds for Wonpil to begin hating himself again. It is always then that he comes back up for air, as the method – and himself – is slowly ridiculed, over and over, in his head. Practice makes perfect; Wonpil isn’t sure any amount of practice could possibly make him overcome that. 

But he has to try. He just – he just has to try. 

He takes a moment. A moment to recollect, to try and ignore the growing loudness, to take in as much air as he can. His lungs are still somewhat burning, but he tolerates. He has to tolerate something. He breathes in, and out. In, and out. In – 

Wonpil immerses himself back under the water. The words turn into noise, and he hears nothing but the ticking of a clock in his head. 

One, two, three.

**Author's Note:**

> If you wish to talk to me about anything (I am willing to listen so please do)!! Contact me on:
> 
> Twitter: @/endlesskyh
> 
> Curious cat: curiouscat.me/endlesskyh


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